


Synonymous

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Straylight Run, Taking Back Sunday
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-04
Updated: 2005-02-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the knock at the door had come earlier that evening, he shouldn't have answered. He should have learned that it wouldn't be Jesse. Jesse wasn't coming over. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synonymous

In his present state, John couldn't quite articulate his feelings on the situation. He was pretty sure it was _bad_ , though.

Really fucking bad.

John leaned back against one of the many blank walls of his apartment (was it the living room wall? had they made it to the bedroom?). Dizziness was seeping into outright nausea. Black spots danced on his vision, sharpening into bright sparks as his fingers wound unconsciously in the dark head of hair. John tried to concentrate on the warm mouth pouting, twisting, suckling around his dick. He tried to revel in the glorious familiarity of the blowjob. He tried not to _think_.

 

When the knock at the door had come earlier that evening, he shouldn't have answered. He should have learned that it wouldn't be Jesse. Jesse wasn't coming over. Ever.

It turned out he wasn't a very good learner, though.

"Expecting someone else?" Adam smirked at him, lounging ostentatiously against the door frame. John reassessed his drawling leer as drunkenness when Adam held up a brown paper bag that clinked tellingly.

"I'm kinda busy," John responded, trying to sound neutral.

"You expecting a _girl_?" Adam's smirk stretched into a wicked grin. He leaned closer, squirming past John and into the apartment. "You're _not_. You're waiting for _him_. Fucking… _loser_."

The statement hung in the air, ambiguous and loaded.

"Word of advice?" Adam swung his arms wide, gesticulating so that the bag of bottles cracked loudly. "Quit waiting around. You do have other… _friends_." Adam set the bag down and began roaming the apartment. "Friends who you don't bother to _call_ "—he ran his fingers over the single lamp in the centre of the living room—"or give a shit about. Friends who might _help_ you—and _Jesus fucking Christ_ , this place is depressing! There's minimalist and then there's _soul-destroying_ … Don't you need a _drink_?"

John smiled in spite of himself. "I think I might just," he said, reaching for Adam's bag. He withdrew a bottle. Southern Comfort. _Of course_.

 

The evening descended quickly into a haze of inebriation: the air filled with rounds of pointless laughter that precluded Adam's self-conscious enticements toward depravity. It was an evening John had lived through a thousand times: the alcohol made things easy, endlessly funny; Adam's rockstar raucousness made him feel sexy and fearless.

They smashed the lamp. It was probably by mistake, but Adam applauded it as a conscious signal against John's solitary living. By this time darkness had faded in, like the hushed blackout before a show's opening song. Without the lamp, the only light came from the apartment's scattered spotlights, cranked down to their lowest setting. As they finished the Southern Comfort, the lights seemed to John like a blur of shivering lighter flames.

 

Adam spat gleefully, and John felt his balance unravelling in the shock of orgasm.

"Didn't that help take your mind off him?" asked Adam, standing up. His hands tweaked idly at John's nipples through his creased shirt. John blinked unresponsively, marvelling at Adam's ability to be so utterly perceptive, so utterly an asshole, despite being blitzed out of his mind.


End file.
